


took that corkscrewed highway

by zealotarchaeologist



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Slice of Life, like friends with benefits but the benefit is teleportation, this is like on the line of friendship and romance so take it how you wish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 08:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist
Summary: Humans aren't made for living alone. Even people like them.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 117





	took that corkscrewed highway

**Author's Note:**

> this is set in the early/middle chapters of the game, so no spoilers beyond fragile's backstory.

The first couple times she appears, it startles the shit out of him. But after a while, Fragile’s company stops being an intrusion and blends into the background of his life.

She always lets herself in. It’s hard to pin down the point at which it becomes familiar. Fragile using the shower when he wakes up. Fragile curled up on the bed, sleeping lightly until he comes in. Fragile crunching down on a cryptobiote obnoxiously loud just to watch him cringe. Touching his stuff, helping herself to his food, knocking his figurines together.

She’s always there when he needs to go somewhere, ready to guide him through her beach. And that’s appreciated. It’s the rest of the time that makes Sam uneasy. Or rather, it makes him uneasy that it _doesn’t _make him uneasy. He doesn’t get what her angle is.

And he knows what people are usually like. “You trying to hook up or something?” He snarls one time, eyes downcast. Hard not to be crass when he’s anxious.

But it just makes her laugh, cold and bitter. “Oh, you’re funny.” She smiles sharp and her spikes flare up to echo it. “Funny. Don’t worry, that won’t be possible. Nothing _works _the way it should.” She gestures to her body, worn and invisible beneath the suit.

“Oh.” Well, now he feels like an asshole. “Sorry.”

She laughs that bitter way again, waves him off. “Just another thing he took.”

Maybe it was unfair of him to feel so agitated in the first place. Fragile is honest, in her weird way. She doesn’t ask anything of him beyond the literal. No demands that he subscribe to any ideals, no play for his emotions. She doesn’t care whether he cares about her revenge quest at all, so long as he does his part. (But of course he does care. It’s fucked up, what happened to her.)

More important: she doesn’t try to touch him, not since the first time they met. Stares at him, sure, gets all up in his space, but she doesn’t angle for anything more. He can tell when someone has expectations, when they’re hoping he’ll get over it or let his guard down enough that they can go for it anyway. Fragile has no such illusions. She’s not much one for touching, herself.

It’s much later, reading some forwarded interview on the topic of human closeness, that he feels like an asshole again. For all the months he spent out there on his own, Fragile surely has an equal tally. Not many people who would have offered even basic supplies and shelter to a known terrorist, at least not before the truth came out.

Sam never says anything about it. But he gets in the habit of requesting an extra pillow or two for his room. Just in case she decides to drop in.

Then there’s the day he’s packing up a bike when Fragile rolls up on one next to him, boxes strapped to the back. For once she doesn’t offer him a snack, preoccupied with checking her gear.

“Roughing it with the rest of us, huh?” It’s good to see her out in the world.

She rolls her eyes and adjusts the umbrella where it’s balanced on her shoulder. “I’m not going to bleed myself dry getting to some paranoid fool halfway up a mountain.”

“Fair,” he starts to say, but she’s already kicked off. Leaving it up to him whether they go together or not. Sam stretches once, twice, then thinks _ah, fuck it_, and follows.

The drive is nice. The hills roll, the sky stays clear. Peaceful, even once they get off the little stretch of road and start racing over countryside. Fragile handles the bike smoothly, but she speeds like something’s chasing her. It’s almost a challenge to keep up. She resembles one of the little cliff birds that survived, swooping and diving and yes, catching bugs.

They pull over when it starts to rain, hole up under an outcropping of rocks. Like when they first met. From her face he can tell she’s thinking the same thing. They don’t need to talk about it. Sam’s always preferred the quiet and Fragile, well, she’s got a lot on her mind.

They take turns dozing, lulled by the sound of the rain. When it’s her watch, Fragile sits at the very edge and stares out into the timefall. The flowers wither and grow and wither again. Until the rain stops, and they’re left somewhere in the middle to finish the growing themselves.

Their bikes struggle in the mud. Struggle worse once they start heading uphill, up one of the rocky black ridges that brackets the greenery. It’s tricky, getting the bikes up, but they manage it between the two of them. And then the ridge turns into a plateau, and it’s just them and the clouds and the valley beneath like a smear of green on black canvas. The sight of it makes him take a deep breath, but Fragile isn’t looking. She remains focused on the horizon.

They ride tracing the remnants of old highways, along the side of the cliff. It soothes his nerves. Fragile matches her pace to his so he can see her face: focused, but pleased. Her hair, too short to be tied up, whips around her face. It’s weird to see Fragile in such a wild environment. She’s always so composed.

The view of the country stretches out before him and he doesn’t understand how people could be so naïve as to give this place a name and think it belongs to them. Sam thinks about old-America and the mythic stories of lone heroes ranging outside of the cities. The two of them could be cowboys, he thinks, could say fuck it to the whole big plan and just ride forever. Camp when they need to and ride again. Until the end of this country. Until the end of the earth.

Fragile pulls off the trail they’ve been using, and he stops.

“Here’s me.” While he’s thinking of something to say, she gives a sharp wave. And then she’s off, tracing a higher path up into further hills. He watches the shape of her grow smaller and smaller until she disappears.

Sam kicks the bike back into gear and sets off down the plateau. It’s not like he’s lonely—they weren’t even talking—but this leg of the trip feels different.

It’s not every day that she shows up. It’s not even most days. But it’s enough that he starts to wonder where she’s at when they go a few weeks without running into each other. It’s stupid. America’s a big country, even when you can teleport. Case in point: he’s out in the middle of nowhere, running ziplines through the trees. No one else out here but him and the wind.

And Fragile is, well, not fragile. Sam knows better than most how capable she is of looking after herself.

Still, he’s grateful to see her face appear on the codec, interrupting the silence. It’s the instant relief of a worry he didn’t know he was carrying, a weight off his back.

“What’s this about,” he says by way of greeting. Fragile doesn’t call. Fragile never calls. Fragile just pops in.

“Just checking in. It’s been a while.” She sounds tired. Sam can hear the sound of rain in the distance. “You’re staying safe out there? Eating your cryptobiotes?”

Not often that people ask that as a question and not an order. It’s taking some getting used to.

“Sure.” The trees tower around him, wind whistling through them. He feels small in comparison. It’s never safe out in the world, but all they can do is try. “Why’re you calling and not here?”

“Tied up with work.” Her voice is low and raspy and it makes him consider, just for a moment. The two of them, in a different light. He can feel his skin prickle, a phantom touch on the handprint that marks their first meeting. 

Well. Even if the spirit’s willing, the flesh has other plans. Maybe in another life. “Keep your concern. Stay safe yourself.” He’s surprised at the force with which he means it.

Fragile doesn’t respond immediately. The rain on her end is getting louder. “Not that fragile. But thank you.” Then she hangs up, and it’s just him and the wilderness. And the sudden awareness of how quiet it is.

It’s another week before they reunite, just as he’s finishing a delivery at South Knot. Funny how they keep coming back to this city in particular. He’s so used to Fragile appearing that he doesn’t even have to look. He feels the air ripple, light footsteps on a beach, and then he knows she must be there.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Her voice comes from behind him as he’s lifting the last massive box off his backpack. “Got something special?”

“Food. Wheat from the farm.” Said food has been absolutely killing his back, and he takes a moment to stretch it out. “What about you?”

Finally, he turns to Fragile. She looks tired but healthy, the good kind of physical exhaustion. Not the way she sometimes gets all pale when she’s been jumping too much. “Odds and ends. The Express is slowly starting to regain its reputation. Thanks to a certain someone.”

Sam ducks his head, rubs at the back of his neck. “You do good work, ‘s all.” At least she has the good sense not to argue that.

They end up celebrating their mutual success down in his room with beer from the timefall farm, trading delivery stories and playing 20 questions. Tastes a little funny, frankly, but it’s better than nothing. Worth it to relax a little and to see Fragile unwind, a hint of color in her cheeks as she regales him with stories of climbing up the country’s highest mountains and down into caves. He counters with his own: the weirdest stuff he’s carried, the wildest preppers. It’s nice. Fragile isn’t some politician walled up in a city, she gets it. Understands the appeal of the freedom that comes with their line of work. Understands the risk, too, and why it’s worth it.

Politely, she jumps out when Sam needs to sleep. But at some point he wakes from another nightmare (footsteps on a beach, dissolving into tar) to see her sitting there in his room, on the floor under where her umbrella hangs.

It doesn’t even register as odd anymore, Fragile coming in while he’s sleeping. Besides, she’s not watching him. Her gaze is on her hand—ungloved—but clearly her mind is somewhere else, like when he watches her watching the rain. If she notices that he’s woken up, she doesn’t show it.

Sam’s not looking on purpose, but she wouldn’t show anything she didn’t want him to see. Her sleeve is rolled up, too, showing the patchwork of her arm. Her skin is wrinkled and thin, the delicate bones of her wrist sticking out. More concerning are the places that must have had a few extra drops. Patches where her skin is almost rotting, aged beyond normal human life. Another reason why she’s so serious about her health.

Her body is worn and aged but it’s still her. It’s not some other body. It’s Fragile, it’s hands that he knows and trusts. The strength she maintains can’t be mistaken for anyone else. And frankly, he doesn’t much care how she looks as long as she’s the Fragile he knows.

But he doesn’t say that. Would only sound condescending and besides, he knows it’s not really about appearances. Not having control of your own body is a hell of a thing. Seems like she’s thinking the same, because Sam doesn’t have the words for how she looks except _really fucking sad._

“Fragile.” He mumbles, before he can really think about it. “Bring that over here.”

She blinks at him for a moment like she doesn’t understand, even when he gestures to her umbrella. “You can go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

“Seriously, come here.” He’s awake now, anyway, and sits up on the bed. “Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

“I was about to leave anyway.” Fragile says, halfhearted. But she does as he asks, striding over to the bed with the folded umbrella.

She shoves it at him with her uncovered hand and stares. Waiting for a reaction or daring him to react. Good. It’s what he intended. Sam puts his hand on the offered handle of the umbrella, but doesn’t take it. Just holds it there, waiting for her to catch on.

And she does, quick, the surprise and understanding written on her face. It’s what she said when she first gave him the umbrella, right? Keeps them_ connected_. It’s as much a part of her as her hands are, an extension of her body. He can’t hold her hand, but he can at least do this.

“Quit being a martyr.” He says, adjusting his grip. Their hands are only an inch apart, now, and he can feel himself tense up. But in this case, it’s worth the effort. “Besides. I’m not that fragile.”

That gets a shaky laugh out of her, at least. Her hand is shaky, too, where she grips the umbrella like a lifeline.

Not quite touching, but connected. Sam trusts her to understand what it means.

**Author's Note:**

> fragile's line about how nothing works isn't necessarily true but is more about how alienated she is from her body. i think it would take a lot of work for her to feel comfortable being physically intimate and i am NOT prepared to write that long of a fanfiction. but i love her so much and definitely want to write more of her and this game in general once i finish the game!


End file.
